


tanabata

by Andramion, arisaema, candyharlot, midsummerjay (avioletqueen), myn_x, Skylark



Series: SASO 2017 [7]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Age Difference, Demons, Gen, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Minor Character Death, Religion, Supernatural Elements, youkai AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andramion/pseuds/Andramion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/arisaema/pseuds/arisaema, https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/pseuds/candyharlot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioletqueen/pseuds/midsummerjay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/myn_x/pseuds/myn_x, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: After being invisible for centuries, Ushijima learns what it means to see and be seen.Team Ushioi's MR1 entry for SASO 2017.





	tanabata

**Author's Note:**

> For the best experience, please listen to the music we composed for this piece!  
> [mori](https://soundcloud.com/user-315825905-698007602/mori)  
> [tanabata](https://soundcloud.com/user-315825905-698007602/tanabata)  
> [maboroshi](https://soundcloud.com/user-315825905-698007602/maboroshi)

**_tanabata_ **

_(七夕):_  the legend states that every summer, on the seventh day of the seventh month, the

weaver star and cow-herder star travel across the Milky Way to renew their ancient bond of love. 

❀❀❀

 _‘Human life is fleeting, Wakatoshi. You mustn't become attached to the creatures you protect.’_  
  
Ushijima understands the concept of "life" and the boundaries separating the realms of youkai and men. It's been eons since his father’s initial warning—before he, along with the rest of the Shiratorizawa clan, became nothing more than a fleeting memory. Still, Ushijima shivers when he learns that his shrine priest has passed into a realm that even  _he_ , one of the oldest, most powerful youkai in the region, does not dare to enter.  
  
The realm of shinigami, of death and decay.  
  
Shirabu Kenjirou had been a travelling monk until he settled at the Shiratorizawa shrine. Ushijima is still not sure why he stayed, but he did—for nearly forty years. He was a constant, calming presence atop Mt. Funagata, a crabby but kind caretaker who attracted villagers and wanderers alike. Ushijima, wary at first, came to enjoy his presence in much the same way he enjoyed watching the trees around the shrine enter their golden years.  
  
Watching Shirabu suffer through his final stage of life was not an experience Ushijima was eager to repeat. He left his shrine for longer and longer, citing unrest along the borders of his territory, until he returned to find something that made him wish he  _had_  stayed: Shirabu, cold on the steps, in the exact spot Ushijima found him the day he arrived.  
  
Ushijima buried him behind the shrine, under the goshinboku tree his clan planted when he was young. He constructed a barrier around the shrine to keep wildlife and lower youkai away, and as the sun set behind the trees, it struck him that Shirabu had lived and died by his side without knowing what Ushijima looked like.  
  
Which is why it's both a shock and a relief when, on a sweltering summer afternoon half a century later, a teenage boy stops his bike at the foot of the shrine and stares directly at where Ushijima is relaxing against the crooked, decaying entryway.

❀❀❀

Oikawa should know better than to let his imagination run wild.  
  
He was still a child when he first heard about the abandoned shrine atop Mt. Funagata. His family and teachers said there was a monk who decorated it with paper lanterns during festival season, so it would be visible from the village on dark summer nights. Oikawa’s also heard about the occasional wolf sighting over the years, even though wolves have been extinct in Japan for a long, long time.  
  
He’s eighteen now, past the age of believing in folktales or the idea that there’s an immortal wolf wandering around the mountains of Sendai. And yet...  
  
Oikawa can’t stop himself from coming back again the next day, skidding to a stop at the gates without realizing where his bicycle wheels have taken him. What is it that grabs him? Is it the eerie-ness, the chill that rattles down his spine whenever he gazes up at the shadowed entryway? There’s comfort to be found away from other people, sure, but deep down he knows that’s not the real reason he’s here.  
  
Something here feels  _alive_  in a way that’s different from every other shrine. Even though it’s abandoned, he thinks the lack of other people allows for a clearer look at the shrine itself. And what he sees beyond the shrubbery and the low-hanging branches of nearby trees is something alive, and  _waiting._  
  
Not that there's much he can do about it. He's hardly a priest-in-training; hell, he’s not even sure he believes in the gods to begin with. Exorcism is out of his league (and sounds like far too much work for the payoff). He prays for a couple seconds and then heads on his way.  
  
Things start to make a little more sense when the Tanabata festival rolls around. Of course, he’s gone to the festival every year, but this is the first time he's felt that same sense of  _life_  that he gets whenever he passes the shrine. Except  _stronger_ —far stronger. It pulls him through the throngs of people, a buzzing in his eardrums that drowns out the children’s laughter and live music. For a moment, Oikawa forgets he’s supposed to meet with friends, with the cute second-year girl who asked if they could eat candied apples together just hours before.  
  
He follows the feeling. And he’s glad that his curiosity has won out when he reaches the outskirts of the festival and sees a figure standing by some dimly-lit stalls, his dark silhouette staring off into the distance. As Oikawa approaches, he notices that the man is dressed in an elegant, traditional kimono the same colors as the setting sun, an ornate festival mask dangling from his hand.  
  
He can’t resist tapping the man on the shoulder, but when he does, a physical jolt zings through his body. His muscles tense as his mind floods with the ruined temple at the top of the mountain—sunlight and silence. The cool wind brushing against his cheeks. A lone bird singing, hidden in the underbrush.  
  
He yanks his hand away, gasping, and it takes a moment before his sun-dazzled eyes readjust to the evening dark. It’s too late to back out now, though—the man has already turned and peers down at him with the bright, amber eyes of a wolf.

❀❀❀

Ushijima takes a long moment to respond. Too many things are happening, setting off an unfamiliar chain of sensations in his chest. It’s  _him_ —the human who visits the shrine. The one who stood under the trees, closed his eyes and faced upward, letting the sunlight filter through the leaves to dapple his face. The one who looked  _right at him_  all those weeks ago.  
  
Well, there is no doubt that he is looking at him now.  
  
“You...” Ushijima’s jaw locks. When was the last time he spoke aloud?  
  
“Hey, what was  _that?”_  the human asks, clutching his hand to his chest. “I try to be polite and I’m greeted with a nasty shock? Rude, don’t you think?”  
  
“I...don’t know,” Ushijima rasps. The surge of power ran through him, too, but it is not anything he’s felt before. It’s difficult to process while also trying to regain his long-held composure at the idea of being  _seen_ , much less spoken to.  
  
Oikawa takes a step back to inspect Ushijima from head to toe. “Hmm, well. Unexplained phenomena happen all the time, so I guess I’ll try and forgive you. Until I can figure it out.” He ends the long, focused slide of his gaze with a snap up to Ushijima’s face, and grins. “You can make it up to me by buying us a snack. That’s what I was doing before…”  
  
“Unexplained phenomena.” Ushijima weighs the phrase on his tongue. Could he—does this human  _know?_  He resolves to tread carefully, though the sly smile dancing on the boy’s face makes his fear of discovery seem almost worth it.  
  
“Exactly.” His eyebrows jump up. “ I’m Oikawa Tooru, by the way.” He does not bow, instead tilting his head and briefly closing one eye before righting his face again.  
  
Ushijima has no idea what that means—some human attempt at playfulness? He certainly seems less angry, now. Still, Ushijima is not about to try and imitate the expression. “Waka—,” he bites his tongue and swallows his true name. “My name is Ushijima.”  
  
The human—Oikawa Tooru—doesn’t seem to notice his near-fatal mistake. He simply steers him back toward the festival, talking about something called “ball lightning,” while Ushijima focuses on keeping a steady head. At first he worries that everything has changed, that everyone can now see him, but the crowd reacts to him like always: not at all.  
  
“Two, please,” Oikawa says to a man at a food booth.  
  
Ushijima frowns, remembering what Oikawa said earlier. “I have no money, nor interest in food.”  
  
Oikawa turns to him, his jaw slack, one hand on his hip. “Well, at least  _one_  of us has manners.” He finishes the exchange, trading money for meat on sticks (the name of which he’s already forgotten) with the vendor, who now seems quite puzzled. He hands one to Ushijima. “You’re welcome.”  
  
Ushijima stares at it. “As I said, I do not require—”  
  
“First you  _shock_  me, then you have no money to buy yakitori that you won’t even  _eat_ —” Oikawa’s face becomes flushed and angular.  
  
Ushijima frowns. “I thank you, but I simply cannot—”  
  
“Oh,  _now_  he says thank you,” Oikawa exclaims, shoving the food into Ushijima’s fumbling hands. “Too little, too late. See ya.”  
  
“I didn’t...” Ushijima stands there, holding two meat-on-sticks, as the only being to have noticed his existence in centuries turns and disappears into the crowd, muttering, his hands in fists.  
  
It’s lacking the presentation that he’s used to, but he knows an offering when he receives one. After a long pause, he bows his head and murmurs, “Thank you.”

❀❀❀

Ushijima stands at the festival’s main gate, waiting.  
  
Fate has been the only thing responsible for their yearly meetings at the festival. While he is grateful to share a few minutes of one day out of every three-hundred and sixty-five with Oikawa, he begins to wonder if he could increase that amount of time with a concerted effort.  
  
And so he waits, and hopes Oikawa comes.  
  
Ushijima is not above admitting that their conversations are a welcome respite from his increasingly suffocating loneliness, but he never imagined his salvation coming in the form of a sharp-tongued human. Nor could he ever have imagined  _yearning_  for a human to see him as much as he yearns for Oikawa.  
  
Then again, most humans do not possess the spiritual energy of a hundred common monks—combined.  
  
The crowd passes him by, oblivious to his existence, and he wishes he could be transparent with Oikawa about who he is,  _what_  he is. He wishes to connect with Oikawa more than just once every year. He wants to know him, to be with him, to find out why he’s so powerful. He wants it more than he’s wanted anything in a very, very long time.  
  
It’s so much, to  _want._  
  
Yet despite all of this weighing on him, he feels lighter when he finally sees Oikawa, when they make eye contact and Oikawa starts walking towards him.  
  
Perhaps the waiting was worth it after all. 

❀❀❀

The stream of people heading for the shrine grounds seems endless.  
  
As he shuffles closer to the grounds’ main gate, Oikawa is caught between a couple holding hands in front of him and some high schoolers behind him. Still, nothing can sour his good mood today.  
  
His gaze roams from the colourful tanzaku tied to the bamboo lining the road, to the intricate pattern of the yukata the girl next to him is wearing, to the way the couple in front of him keeps making each other laugh, to the waxing crescent moon hanging in the evening sky.  
  
But the thing that most catches Oikawa’s eye is Ushijima, standing beside the gate with his mask hooked on the tips of his fingers.  
  
The moment their eyes meet, Oikawa starts making his way over until he's close enough to make out Ushijima's expression, until the smile curving Ushijima's lips stops him in his tracks as his heart picks up its pace.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he asks. His voice  _must_  be too soft to carry, but Ushijima seems to hear him.  
  
"I was awaiting your arrival," Ushijima states, as formal as ever. Oikawa feels himself relax at the familiarity.  
  
"Well then,” he says, deciding not to mention the change of meet-up spot. “Shall we get to the main event?"   
  
They stroll across the festival grounds, Oikawa filling the silence until even he can’t compensate for Ushijima's lack of conversational skills anymore.   
  
It's nice, walking around and looking at the stalls. That shock he experienced the first time he touched Ushijima has diminished to a small zip of electrical current. Every brush of their shoulders and bump of their hands shares a bit of it between them.  
  
Like every year, Oikawa buys two portions of yakitori, and like every year after the first, Ushijima dutifully takes one. Oikawa isn’t sure Ushijima actually eats it—he seems to have a talent for making bits of food disappear when Oikawa isn't looking. Oikawa remembers the first time Ushijima refused him, and he’s embarrassed by how ridiculous he had been in his teenage outrage.  
  
But Ushijima has never mentioned it again, like all the other things Oikawa has corrected him on: the fact that hydrating is  _important_  on hot days— _take the damn drink, Ushijima, I can't believe you forgot your wallet_  again—and the fact that he implied Oikawa was  _weak_  for needing sunscreen to protect his skin. So many arguments and misunderstandings.  
  
When they reach the other edge of the festival grounds, Oikawa points with his caramel apple.  
  
"Wanna sit down?" he asks, already leading the way to the spot where they first met.  
  
For a long while, that's all they do: sit down, watching the fireworks as Oikawa finishes his apple, until the crowd disperses.  
  
Then, when Oikawa can't take it anymore, can't keep ignoring the electrical current running between their touching pinkies, can't stand the thought of going another year without  _understanding,_  he speaks.  
  
"Hey, Ushijima?" he starts, not taking his eyes off the stars. "If I ask you something, will you be truthful?"  
  
"I never lie," Ushijima's voice rumbles beside him. Oikawa lets out a short laugh.  
  
"Sure, sure, of course." Oikawa bites his lip to keep from smiling. "I've been thinking...am I… is it—you're not—human?"  
  
Ushijima doesn't answer, so Oikawa reaches for his hand and looks him straight in the eyes. Ushijima's expression is unchanged but somehow he seems startled, and it gives Oikawa the courage to go on with his ridiculous line of questioning.  
  
"Like those ghosts I see in the corner of my eye? The ones only I see. Is that why you feel like that old, abandoned shrine? Like… _more?"_  
  
Another moment of silence. Oikawa squeezes Ushijima’s hand to hide how his own shakes.  
  
"Please. Tell me the truth. You owe me at least that.”  
  
Ushijima averts his eyes and the silence between them drags, punctuated by the crack and sizzle of the last few fireworks.  
  
Then Ushijima gives an ancient, lonely sigh, and Oikawa feels something give in his chest. “Yes,” Ushijima says. “I am a youkai. An okami, to be precise.”  
  
A  _wolf?_  Oikawa’s pulse quickens, his eyes widening as the pieces fall into place: Ushijima’s bewilderment at trivial things, like Oikawa’s dialect and clothes; and how Ushijima has  _never_  interacted with the people around them. At first, Oikawa is mortified—have people been assuming he’s talking to himself? But before can ask why  _he_  can see, hear, and feel Ushijima, who appears so tangibly  _human,_  Ushijima speaks.  
  
“The world of youkai has many shades of good and evil. The shrine you are speaking of was built as a tribute to my clan. Okami have protected this territory for centuries from those who bear its inhabitants ill-will.” Ushijima pauses. “I am the last of them.”  
  
Oikawa is too enthralled to interrupt, but his grip on Ushijima’s hand tightens.  
  
“We do not typically...interact with humans.” Ushijima speaks slowly, carefully. “Doing so crosses a sacred boundary. I do not question it.” He swallows. “I have not questioned it.”  
  
_Oh._  
  
“Wait—wait just a minute,” Oikawa interrupts. “Isn’t that kind of… Close-minded?”  
  
“Perhaps it is,” Ushijima muses before his expression hardens. “But humans can be selfish, prideful, and godless creatures.”  
  
Despite the harshness of the insult, there is no malice behind the words, only Ushijima’s usual candor. Still—the smile slips from Oikawa’s face and his eyes narrow as he leans away, withdrawing his hand and severing the current flowing between them.  
  
“I’m one of  _those creatures,_  you know,” Oikawa huffs. “ _I’m_  a human, and I don’t think all the yakitori I’ve bought you speaks to my inherent selfishness.”  
  
The gentle teasing flies over Ushijima’s head, little to Oikawa’s surprise.  
  
“I suppose there have been exceptions. Shirab—” Ushijima stops, his jaw working around the feel of his late companion’s name. “When the shrine was inhabited, I was the guardian of the forest, invisible to the eyes of men. And like those before me, I preferred it.”  
  
Oikawa can’t look away.  
  
“Until you.”  
  
Ushijima’s gaze is heavy, making Oikawa shiver. “Until  _me?”_  
  
“We are slowly fading. Our one weakness is our reliance on human piety.” Ushijima takes Oikawa’s hand once more, his thumb brushing over Oikawa’s knuckles. “Because of you, I no longer fear my own weakness.”  
  
It’s a simple confession, but Oikawa chokes on a breath. “I-I’m flattered, but how could I possibly—”  
  
“I'd like to see you again,” Ushijima interrupts. “And not just in a year's time. You...your spirit is good, and powerful. I believe you would make an excellent companion at my shrine, if you would not mind so humble a post."  
  
Before Oikawa can think of another witty comeback, Ushijima has already faded away into the darkness around them, the only reminder the faint scents of sage and pine in the air.  
  
Oikawa gropes at the warm, flattened grass beside him, wondering if Ushijima was ever there in the first place.

❀❀❀

 

The university library is a strange place in the summer evenings. It’s almost deserted, even though the place usually buzzes with students writing, typing and flipping pages. The perpetual shade between the high shelves hides all notion of time passing, and the dusty lighting barely illuminates the lines of text Oikawa is skimming.  
  
On the other end of the city the Tanabata festival is in full swing, and by now the bamboo must already be lined with the colourful wishes of all the visitors. Parents will be taking their kids home, slowly replaced by the evening crowd.  
  
And Oikawa’s  _not there._  
  
Despite going every year for as long as he can remember, here he is, sitting at a desk in a room that smells like moldy paper, wondering what Ushijima will think of his absence.  
  
It’s been a year since Oikawa’s seen him, and although that is always the case, it felt much longer this time.  
  
He can’t picture himself walking up to Ushijima, doesn’t know what he could,  _should,_  say to him when all he’s done this year is try to wrap his head around what this is. What they are. What can he do when he still hasn’t found an answer, when he doesn’t know what Ushijima being a youkai  _changes?_  
  
He’s not sure it changes anything, actually, and that’s the frightening part. He must have known that Ushijima has always been different somehow. He’s not sure how much the truth is supposed to scare him off.  
  
So instead of celebrating the one day of the year he’s looked forward to most for at least half his life, he’s locked himself away with his masters’ thesis and tries to keep reminding himself that this—the longing in his chest, the pull towards the light and magic of the festival, towards  _Ushijima_ —is something he doesn’t need.  
  
Out of nowhere, he feels that familiar tug of  _alive_ —of  _more_ —before he notices the ripple in the air. Then Ushijima is there, and Oikawa can’t pinpoint the moment he appeared. One second he’s alone, the next it’s like Ushijima has always been in the room with him.  
  
It doesn’t make it any easier on his heart when he turns to meet Ushijima’s eyes. All Oikawa can think is  _I haven’t had enough time, I haven’t decided, I don’t have an answer for you yet._  

❀❀❀ 

Seeing him sitting there, the surprised pink on his cheeks, hits Ushijima square in the chest. It’s been agonizing, waiting for this day to come. A year used to be such a small space of time.  
  
“How—how did you know I was here?” Oikawa hisses.  
  
“I apologize for startling you.” Ushijima takes a step closer. “You were not at the festival, so I followed your aura.”  
  
Oikawa leans back in his chair. “My…” He exhales, slow.  _“What?”_  
  
“Did you forget our meeting?” Ushijima wants it to have been a mistake; he can’t stop the longing from boiling inside him. He waits. It feels like he’s always been waiting.  
  
Eventually, Oikawa speaks. “I was thinking.”  
  
“Would you...” Ushijima pauses. He knows Oikawa is just as proud as he is guarded. These are things he admires in him. “Would you be willing to speak with me?”  
  
Oikawa looks around and whispers, “I don’t think this is the place— ”  
  
“I have a place in mind.” Ushijima extends his hand, fingertips tingling with the awareness he is offering more than a change in location.  
  
Oikawa lifts his own hand, just barely, and flexes it. “Will we leave the way you came?” His eyes are wide with interest, and a smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The smile grows; a tiny bloom of hope.  
  
“It may be uncomfortable for you.”  
  
Oikawa pouts. “It can’t be worse than the time you shocked me when we first met.”  
  
“You may be misremembering. I do not believe the jolt was that strong, then.”  
  
“ _You_  misremember. It was terrible. I have nightmares.” Oikawa reaches for his outstretched hand. “Take me.”  
  
He’s  _teasing,_  Ushijima realizes. He missed that. A soft buzz runs where their skin touches. He missed that, too. With a nod and gentle squeeze of Oikawa’s hand in his, they disappear from the library. The pages of Oikawa’s book flutter with the force of it. No one looks up.  
  
When they land at the shrine, Oikawa is still clutching Ushijima’s hand. “Oh,” he says, as he opens his eyes.  _“Oh.”_  
  
His voice is reverent. His upturned face glows in the moonlight and it hits Ushijima viscerally—Oikawa is no longer the boy he was all those years ago. He watches as Oikawa turns, taking it all in: the plants growing through the cracks in the stone; the chipped, discolored red paint; the shingles, fallen from the roof so long ago, lying broken on the ground.  
  
“I haven’t been here since…” Oikawa trails off, laughing to himself.  
  
“I remember.” Ushijima hoped that coming here would help Oikawa feel a little of what  _he_  feels, just being around him. He’s never seen Oikawa smile like this, his face open and bright and full of wonder.  
  
“How do I feel so light and so heavy at the same time?”  
  
Everything is as derelict as ever, but it does not feel that way—not anymore. The shrine, which sat stagnant for so long, now hums with possibility. The trees, air, and stones themselves all seem, as Oikawa said,  _more_. And in the center, the man responsible for that all-encompassing, ardent, and beautiful force is still holding Ushijima’s hand.   
  
Ushijima can look nowhere else. 

❀❀❀


End file.
